


The Good Son

by draculard



Category: Frasier (TV)
Genre: Coming Out, Does it count as daddy kink when he's really your dad, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Niles Goes to a Gay Bar, Parent/Child Incest, Sibling Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-24 06:07:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18162332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: Niles just wants to mope at the nearest gay bar and drink cheap wine.Martin won't let him drink alone.





	The Good Son

A man slides into the seat next to Niles with the lithe grace of a panther. He nods at the bartender, says, “What’ve you got on draft?” with a smile. Niles pretends not to see him. He keeps his eyes on his glass of shitty red wine.

This is his worst nightmare. His marriage with Maris is falling apart, Daphne won’t even look at him -- and now here he is, sipping cheap alcohol at one of Seattle’s seediest gay bars, with his own father in the seat next to him, trying to catch his eye.

“Niles,” Martin starts.

“No,” says Niles softly. He shakes his head. There are tears burning at the back of his eyes, but he blinks them away, jutting his jaw out stubbornly. They will not talk about this, he decides. Not here. Not with everything that’s happened in the past week. He can’t stand to meet Martin’s gaze; he can’t bear the disappointment in his father’s eyes.

The bartender brings Martin his beer.

“Thought you liked women,” Martin says casually. “Or at least, I thought you liked Daphne.”

Niles blinks furiously. He takes a massive gulp of his wine in a fruitless effort to drown the lump in his throat. “I do,” he says, and his voice comes out choked. “I just…”

He can’t think of anything to say, any explanation. Part of him wants to track backward through all his ridiculous schoolboy crushes -- on the athletes who wouldn’t look his way, on the hoodlums who harassed him, on his professors and psychiatrists, on all the confident men who have intimidated him -- even to that first shameful moment he’s never confessed to anyone, the moment when he saw Frasier’s cock in the bath when he was six years old and a rush of excitement went through him. But another, stronger part of him knows this isn’t possible, that he should finish his drink and walk away.

“You seem nervous,” Martin says. God damn him, he doesn’t sound surprised or confused at all. He’s as natural as if he were discussing the weather. “Let’s start again, shall we?”

Niles swallows hard. He still hasn’t so much as glanced at his father.

When he feels a hand on his shoulder, it takes him by surprise. He flinches, nearly falling off the barstool.

“Niles,” says Martin softly, “why do you think I came here?”

Niles says nothing. He can’t find the words.

“Do you think I was looking for you?” Martin asks. His voice is tinged with scorn. “Here? If I wanted to find you, I’d search the opera house, or the fancy-pants cheese market.”

Niles can hear the smile in Martin’s voice, and he almost responds to it in kind. He stops himself at the last minute, transforming his half-hearted smile into a one-shouldered shrug. It feels like his heart has been frosted over; coldness radiates through his chest, interspersed with bursts of white heat that leave him feeling ill.

“Let’s try this again,” Martin says. He spins Niles around on the bar stool, forcing him to meet his gaze. To Niles’s surprise, his father’s smile seems genuinely warm; there are laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. Even more surprising --

“Dad,” says Niles, flabbergasted, “are you wearing -- is that --”

Martin puts his thumbs under the leather straps covering his hairy nipples. “It’s a halter top,” he says proudly. “I got it at that sex shop down the street.”

“Boudoir Noir?” Niles blurts out, and then curses himself for revealing that knowledge.

“Yup, that’s the one,” says Martin. “It buckles in the back, see? I had to get Frasier to help me put it on.”

He swivels around so Niles can see the shiny, silver clasps keeping his scanty leather top together. Patches of Martin’s skin show through the mesh lining, covered in scars from years of police work. Jealousy surges up Niles’s throat as he imagines Frasier buckling the straps.

“It’s -- it’s nice, Dad,” Niles stammers, looking away. He takes another deep drink of his wine, for entirely different reasons this time.

“I thought you might like it,” Martin says. “If I knew you’d be here, though, I might have chosen my green velvet corset instead.”

Niles chokes on his drink. “You do _not_ have a corset,” he says, and then Martin’s words catch up with him and a flush suffuses his pale face.

“Of course I have a corset,” Martin says with a fake scoff. He’s smiling a little, and his eyes are gentle, lingering on Niles’s wine-stained lips. “Maybe you’ll get to see it some time.”

Niles forces a chuckle. He tries to convince himself that this isn’t happening. His instincts tell him Martin is flirting with him -- but of course, that’s ridiculous. People are notoriously bad at recognizing flirtation, and he’s sure he must be mistaken. If anything, Martin would be interested in--

An image flashes through his mind -- Frasier’s fingers skimming over Martin’s skin, rubbing gentle circles on his back as he pulls the halter top on. It’s always been Frasier, Niles thinks bitterly. Dad’s favorite -- more masculine than Niles, more successful. Less emotional, less…

Niles swallows bitterly.

Less queer.

He can’t allow his feelings to cloud his judgment. Whatever is happening here, it’s not flirtation. Perhaps it’s a strange form of communicating support -- perhaps it’s all just a tone-deaf joke.

But it’s not flirtation.

It’s not.

Martin’s hand is still on his shoulder.

“Dad--” Niles starts.

“Call me Daddy,” Martin says. Niles turns to him, his face frozen in shock, but Martin just waggles his eyebrows. “Just for tonight,” he says.

Niles’s mouth works. He struggles to find words. The wine has gone to his brain, leaving him feeling fuzzy and warm -- he must be drunk off his ass. That’s the only explanation for this, the only explanation for --

Martin’s fingers creep up to Niles’s collar. He grabs hold of it and tugs Niles forward so sharply he almost falls off his stool; Martin catches him, wrapping one arm around his son, and pulls him close. His lips find Niles’s neck.

“Daddy,” Niles whispers. He closes his eyes, surrendering to the fuzziness, to the warmth, to Martin’s arm around his shoulders, Martin’s teeth against his skin.

“Atta boy,” says Martin. His voice is almost soundless. He pulls the top button of Niles’s shirt apart, kissing his way down Niles’s neck to his collarbones. Niles gasps; his cock twitches, suddenly rock-hard, straining against the front of his pants.

Frasier has never had this with Dad, Niles thinks fiercely. He’s sure of it. Frasier’s had many things Niles has not -- but not this.

Martin’s hand slips down between Niles’s legs, cupping him through his trousers. Niles’s hips buck, seeking friction, and his father provides it, grinding his open palm against Niles’s cock. Sense-memories surge through Niles’s head -- sitting in his father’s lap as a toddler, bathing with Frasier, Martin’s hands scrubbing down his back, every warm hug, every close embrace, every time he snuck into Mom and Dad’s bed after a nightmare to curl up between them. It all comes together at once, and suddenly he’s so aroused he can think about nothing else but Martin’s hand, Martin’s lips, Martin’s skin.

“You always were my favorite son,” Martin says.


End file.
